Magic Trick! There was one more unexpected helping hand
by BBCRULES
Summary: Mycroft, Molly, and Sherlock worked together to fake the suicide of Sherlock Holmes. But there was one more helper. Chapter 1: Magic Trick. Sherlock explains how he did fake his death to his flatmate, John Watson. Chapter 2: There was a person in veil who made the detective's stunt possible. A spin-off : Out of Character. Thank you for reading. Review, please:)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock explains how he faked his death to John one year after he returned. John has moved back to 221B recently and works as a part-time doctor. In the next chapter, you will find an unexpected person who helped the detective to fake his death. Thank you for reading. Please, review:)

* * *

Holding two bags of instant coffee in one hand, Sherlock peeked at John sitting on the sofa in the sitting room. They just got back from the Yard, chasing after a killer on the loose. After the case was closed, Lestrade had sent them rather early without finishing up reporting because John had to go to work. Trying to keep his eyes open, the doctor rubbed his bleary red eyes and opened morning newspapers.

"You don't have surgery today, right? Otherwise, I'd strongly recommend you call in sick."

"No surgery today. Just afternoon shift at the outpatient clinic."

Sherlock waved the coffee bags at the doctor.

"Still fancy a coffee?"

"Definitely. Thanks. Two sugars, please."

Sherlock's hand stopped while he was pouring hot water into the mugs.

"You don't take sugar in your coffee."

"A sweet fairy must've changed me. Well, I see you take no sugar…"

All of a sudden, Sherlock stumbled, while handing out a mug to the doctor.

"Uh… Bitterness seems to suit me perfectly, I guess."

John grinned at Sherlock's stuttering. Glancing back at the newspaper, John found a small article that a three-year-old toddler luckily survived a 5-story fall with a broken leg in Lancaster. His professional curiosity kicked in, giving him the courage to ask. He cleared his throat, and waited for his flatmate to come back with his mug. Taking a sip, the doctor put down his coffee and said rather sternly after taking a deep breath.

"Okay, Sherlock. I've got only half an hour before I need to get ready. Perfect. You've been evading the topic forever, but today I need to hear it. It's been one year after you returned. As a medical professional, your flatmate, and the only friend of yours, I believe I'm entitled to an explanation."

A look of boredom fleeted across the detective's face. Stifling a yawn, he put the mug down on a table near the fireplace.

"I've done it hundred times already. A boring subject. Can't you think of anything more interesting?"

"You've done it to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and the others, not me."

"You did tell me you didn't want to know."

"Yes, but I changed my mind."

With an annoyed look on his face, the sleuth took off his coat, sat on his favorite armchair, and picked up his coffee mug.

"You had never been fickle-minded, John. That's one of the "few" good things about you… Seriously what changed you? It's the sugar. Switch back to unsweetened coffee."

He took a sip from the steamy mug.

"By the way you saw it happen with your own eyes."

"Yes, Sherlock, I saw you jump. That's all that I saw before I found a body on the pavement."

After a few more sips, the detective slowly stated because John's glare felt a little uncomfortable.

"Every clue is hidden in my last call to you, John. I had thought you could've figured it out before I came back... A normal Sherlock would've texted you. That was the first clue. Second one, you should've noticed that something was off because Mrs. Hudson was fine. The call from a paramedic was a fake. Third, you didn't see me land - you saw me jump from the edge. I had instructed you to stand at a specific point behind a building so you couldn't see the impact. Forth, focus on the words that I had chosen in the last phone call -a magic trick, a fake... Use your brain, if you're lucky to have one."

John protested, half-annoyed and half-resigned at the honesty of his friend.

"If I remember correctly, we were fugitives on the run. Rather, you were, because you had taken me as hostage with a gun. There were a lot to deal with on top of the fake call. Not everyone has a brain of your brilliance, Sherlock."

"Ah, you're much better than Anderson. In the report of Miss. Hunter case, Anderson had written…."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled at the name Anderson. John ignored Sherlock's futile attempt to change the subject.

"At that time, I was already upset, and the bloody biker who appeared out of thin air, had hit me hard. He even didn't apologize. It took me at least a couple of minutes before I was able to stagger up. Wait, come to think of it, no one was there to help me."

Sherlock shrugged before putting his mug down on the table. In a nonchalant voice, he replied.

"Well, there was a fall from a great height: Everybody is supposed to pay more attention to a dead body."

John could picture what he had seen that day. Instantly he was at the Bart's perimeter, staring at the rooftop of the building and the billowing dark coat of his friend. He could hear the disturbed teary voice of his friend. John's story became a graphic narration.

"I could see you throw away your mobile. You were flailing your arms. Your coat flapped in the air. The three seconds felt like a minute…"

He took a sudden breath in.

"The position of the body didn't coincide with your fall. It was parallel to the building. It should've been almost perpendicular to the building if I had seen it right."

"U-huh… At last you mastered Observation Skills 101."

"Sherlock, was it you who took the fall?"

Sherlock shook his head incredulously.

"No doubt about it as far as I remember. I was spending the last few minutes of my life with Jim Moriarty."

"But, you survived the fall... barely scratched. It's rare. You did break the fall with something."

"There was something else in front of the building that I jumped."

"The lorry?"

"Exactly. Mycroft's help. A trash lorry doesn't look suspicious anytime anywhere. Do you remember my hand had reached out for you? That was the signal. From the side of the lorry, a small narrow net was unfolded and fixed to the bench, a blind spot from you and the sniper. A guy from the Homeless Network fastened the net."

"It's hard to believe that you were able to land exactly on top of the net."

"I had to factor in everything. I had chosen where to stand very carefully. To my luck, Moriarty had committed a suicide. Otherwise, I might not been able to fool him. The width of the net was just 6 feet, completely hidden behind the lorry. The sniper would've been able to notice it if the net had been wider. When I fell, I almost missed the net; broke my left arm; but managed to stand up immediately."

"Then you positioned on the pavement with some of the homeless people splattering you with blood?"

"That wasn't me. I got the net back and hurled it into the truck, and got into the lorry next to the driver. Molly -bless her efficiency- had hurled the prepared body from a window before the lorry took off. The sniper was focusing on you after spotting you getting off a cab so it was rather easy."

Sherlock added in exasperated voice.

"I forgot again. Mycroft had been telling me to treat Molly lunch for the troubles of that day. John, remind me when we go to the Lab next time."

The doctor took no heed of Sherlock's words. He adamantly insisted.

"It was you! I saw his face when people rolled the body around…"

"Ah, the power of implication. We've experienced it at Baskerville, remember? You just got a death note from me; witnessed my jumping from a building; and found a dead body on the ground. It had to be me; you believed it even before you got a closer look at the body."

Sherlock glanced at his flatmate and sensed John's temper rising fast. His voice changed to a lower and more assuring one.

"John, you're an experienced ex-army doctor. You've witnessed so many brutal deaths at war. It was almost impossible to deceive you. So I had to arrange the guy on a bike. A mild concussion should do the trick."

"All the people who stopped me from examining the body were also your Homeless Network?"

"Of course. Specifically, one guy had to keep his fingers on the carotid artery of my John Doe. You could touch only one outstretched arm of the body. Think! Suppose the fall didn't kill me. There had to be some vital signs in that case like pulse or spasm or movement of eyeballs."

The doctor realized that he had been completely fooled. It wasn't a fresh body. However, he still tried to convince himself.

"But… but… it was you. I saw your empty eyes and the blood trickling from the side of your head. There was no pulse, when I…checked… Hold on. The body was already cold. Algor Mortis. You got the body from Molly?"

"She had spent a couple of hours, making a body look like me. The body on the gurney wasn't me."

In annoyance, the doctor complained.

"And Mycroft had identified your body as the closest kin. Mycroft, Molly, and you… I don't know what to say. That was a reckless, foolish, and dangerous plan, Sherlock, on top of the fact that I was excluded totally. Couldn't you at least allow me to play a part of it?"

With a surprised look, Sherlock stared at his friend for a minute. The doctor had to explain.

"I would've faced a death with you rather than to remain in darkness, Sherlock."

All of a sudden, the detective's look changed to a vague look of realization.

"You already played a part of it, John. As a friend in grieving, you did fool all the people including the sniper. My brother had complimented your act - so real. You could've won a BAFTA. From Mycroft, that's a rare..."

Glancing at the defiant look of his friend, the detective stretched out and rubbed his eyes.

"Well, I think we've covered all the important points. Let's move onto Anderson's stupid report. In the murder case of Miss. Hunter, Anderson wrote down in the forensics report that..."

John stood up before Sherlock finished the sentence.

"Well, I guess I need to get ready. Thanks for the coffee, Sherlock. Have some rest and eat something. I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to check on you."

Sherlock sat down on a sofa, feeling as if he had just finished the mandatory school project that he kept delaying: He had to talk about it with the doctor. Leaning back comfortably, the detective yawned and closed his eyes. Apparently the coffee didn't work: he was too tired. When John ran downstairs in a hurry, he found the detective fast asleep. Smiling, the doctor picked up the dark coat and covered his friend with it before he left.


	2. Chapter 2

Kitty Riley must be on the top of the least favorite characters in the Sherlock BBC series. I'm not fond of her, either. She repels me:{

Then it occurred to me: what if she was not a reporter at all. She might have her own secret. So here is a story that might change our notion towards Kitty. This story is loosely related to the "Magic Trick" and "Out oF Character".

* * *

**A day after the verdict**

Richard Brook, a.k.a. James Moriarty was alone in his hotel room, sipping wine from time to time. His eyes were fixed on a five-minute clip of recorded images on the screen. He concentrated on the image because he couldn't hear the dialogue, but it was obvious that the tall, lanky and black-haired man made some derisive comment before leaving the ginger-haired woman in the toilet of the Courthouse. The woman was fuming: she had been hitting on Sherlock for minutes obviously and failed. Moriarty could sense her anger mounting based on her mouth movement. How thick she could be. It was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He captured the woman's close-up picture and sent it to one of his IT staff for identification.

**A week later**

_Kitty Riley, a rookie reporter working for the Sun._

Moriarty's mouth twitched when he received the report about the woman's ID. A rookie reporter who has a burning ambition in journalism – no one could be better than her. She would do anything to make her name as a journalist. Her injured pride was the icing on the top: he was confident that she would be the right weapon against his enemy, Sherlock Holmes. He called the Sun and asked for Kitty Riley's number.

* * *

**Office of Mycroft Holmes**

Mycroft Holmes opened the e-mail from agent R17 immediately. His assistant had to interrupt his phone call with the Prime Minister, but he didn't care. The e-mail was short.

_Today at the West End. R17_

He typed a short reply before he picked up the phone again and apologized profusely to the annoyed Prime Minister.

* * *

**Café at the West End**

Kitty Riley hurried inside the café; she was late for about ten minutes. She should've left the office earlier but the bloody stubborn editor nitpicked her latest article for 15 more minutes than she had expected.

She looked around, and found a nervous man standing up at the corner. That must be him. She could recognize the face that had been on the front pages for weeks. James Moriarty, the man who broke into the three most heavily guarded places in the U.K. In the courthouse, he had looked so confident in the stylish grey suit. Today he was wearing faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and a beige jacket. She noticed the man was shaking a bit from nervousness and maybe fear? He actually looked as if he might faint right away. His face was paler and his eyes darted all around. She slowed down, put on her best assuring smile that she could manage, and walked to the man's table, never breaking an eye contact. Moriarty held out his hand to her.

"You are…Ms. Riley…"

"Just Kitty, please. Thank you for meeting me. Mr. Mori…"

The man cut in rather harshly.

"I told you my name is Richard Brook."

Taken aback slightly, Kitty raised her eyes. The man stammered; his uneasiness was palpable.

"Uh, I'm so sorry. Nerves…I didn't mean to be impolite… Sorry. The pleasure is mine."

Kitty was about to ask how he could assume a different name after all those frenzy media reporting on his trial, but decided not to for now. She kept on talking to break the ice.

"I'm sorry to be late. The work thing. You don't know when a bomb drops."

"Yes, I understand."

"Do you want to drink something? Coffee?"

"Cappuccino, please."

She placed a tray of two cappuccino cups on the table and sat down. She looked at the man who had broken into the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and the Pentonville Prison; did nothing else but got arrested without resistance; was put on the Trial of the Century and acquitted to everybody's shock. For a man who was capable of doing the impossible, he looked timid and small: his hands were trembling when he picked up his coffee.

"You are him, James Moriarty."

"Ms. Riley. No, please, listen to me. I am Richard Brook. There is no James Moriarty."

Kitty made an awkward smile but her face looked incredulous.

"The media had been following you for weeks since your arrest. Everyone involved is calling you Moriarty and now you are saying you are not him?"

In haste, he stuttered.

"I was… was…hired by..Sher… Sherlock Holmes. He made me act as James Moriarty."

Kitty forgot her coffee and stared at the man. This was too good to believe. Managing to hide her glee on the face, she tried to look doubtful.

"You're saying Sherlock Holmes created James Moriarty? You are stretching your credulity to the limit."

The man stammered, wiping off the sweats on his forehead.

"Please, believe me. There is no James Moriarty. I am Richard Brook, working as an actor on and off. I was out of work for months. I badly needed some money. My mother was a drug addict. She had borrowed some money from wrong people and I had to help her pay back."

"I'm listening."

"The detective contacted me about 14 months ago…Febuary, last year, I think. He offered me some money if I played along with his plan. He wanted me to act as James Moriarty."

"Just to pull off the Trial of the Century?"

"No, that wasn't the first. Sherlock needed a master villain to make the public give high credit on his deduction. He had planned it a way before the trial."

"The three unbreakable places that you had broken into - Sherlock Holmes has obtained the fame as Reichenbach Hero. Well, his plan has worked."

"Yes, Ms. Riley. But there was someone who Sherlock needed to deceive thoroughly before this."

"Just Kitty. You mean the doctor?"

"Yes, Dr. Watson. Do you remember Connie Prince and the fake Vermeer painting scandals? Mr. Holmes had instructed me to send texts to the hostages and force them to copy the texts. He pretended to save the victims in time."

Kitty took a few sips from her cup. Then she asked rather coldly after realizing something.

"There were some people dead, if I remember correctly. Gas Leak, the reports said."

"It's Sherlock 's fault. I don't think he did it on purpose, but something went wrong and the bomb exploded. It wasn't a gas leak."

"You are making a significant allegation that you might have to be accountable for. You're incriminating Mr. Holmes, the Reichenbach Hero."

"After that explosion, I knew Sherlock would do anything to have his way. I had to cater to his requests to save my own life."

He couldn't continue apparently: he was choking up. Kitty urged him to drink some coffee. After a few sips, he said.

"I realized that he would be able to silence me given that he has acquired the fame from my trial…and he doesn't need me anymore."

Kitty inquired,

"But you could have served your whole life in a prison!"

"Sherlock…he told me that I, that I would be freed if I gave up my defense and kept my mouth shut."

Suddenly the man began to sob, and Kitty had to wait until he calmed down. She asked to continue the interview.

"You said Sherlock had to fool Dr. Watson?"

The man swallowed a couple of sips down and then took a deep breath.

'Yes, Sherlock ordered me to kidnap Dr. Watson, put him in a bomb vest, and appear in person before him. I didn't know what he was up to at that time and left the pool after I finished my act as instructed."

"And Dr. Watson believed it?"

"As far as I know, he did."

Kitty forgot her coffee. His story sounded too truthful.

"Do you have any proof? For example, a text message, handwritten letters or anything from Sherlock Holmes?"

"He made me delete everything. How stupid of me!"

Richard cursed at himself. Kitty said in an assuring voice.

"Dont' worry. The police can restore the texts once the investigation opens."

Brook flinched a little, but recovered nicely.

"As long as there IS an investigation, Kitty. But I have other proof. I'll show you."

Immediately Richard took out a file from his backpack and showed her his portfolio. She perused the paper carefully: every document, newspaper clippings…looked genuine. However, she had to ask one more thing.

"Do you have witnesses like your colleague or boss who can prove that you're an actor?"

"Yes, of course. I can take you to theaters now and introduce you to my colleagues."

Kitty pondered over something and answered apologetically.

"Can it wait? I have another appointment, unmovable one, after this. Can we do it tomorrow, the first thing in the morning?"

"No problem. How about 10 o'clock here. Kitty. You can take my portfolio with you and read it thoroughly. I have files in my PC."

She thanked him and left with the file. She didn't see the man's transformation because she was too obsessed with the new information she just acquired. Left alone, a small, timid, scared Richard Brook disappeared. James Moriarty ignored the coffee and texted to someone before he left.

**Holmes Manor**

Mycroft sensed that he was not alone in the house. Silently he deposited his coat and jacket, and opened a side drawer to take out his gun when a low familiar voice stopped him.

"Anything new?"

"Sherlock. I didn't expect you today. You shouldn't be here. If someone sees you…"

"I was careful."

They sat on in front of a computer and turned it on. Mycroft asked if Sherlock would like some tea but he refused as usual.

"I got only half an hour, Mycroft. Now, show me the portfolio."

The brothers perused scanned images of Richard Brook's CV on the screen.

"From your agent?"

"Yes. One of the best that I've got."

"And our villain's next move?"

"They are going to visit the West End to verify the CV."

"So, Richard Brook is real, flesh and blood.

"Yes, he is a law-abiding citizen on one side of the world, but..."

"He is a consulting criminal on the other side. He had already given me a hint."

Sherlock told his brother about the message from Moriarty about a year ago.

_Man:__ The clue's in the name - Janus Cars._

_Sherlock Holmes:__ Why would you be giving me a clue?_

_Man:__ Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock._

_Sherlock Holmes:__ Then talk to me in your own voice._

_Man:__ Patience._

"He had said that it was all about him and me. It wasn't just a clue for his puzzle. It was about my previous question. I had asked who he was. The answer was Janus. A god with two faces. Richard Brook is James Moriarty."

"There is no record of a J. Moriarty in government database, Sherlock. It must be his alias, only known to his clients."

"So it will make his allegation more believable that he is Richard Brook."

"In addition Richard Brook on record is a model citizen…"

"He must have worked sporadically as an actor on purpose. Assuming the mask of a innocent citizen…"

Sherlock closed his eyes in concentration. Mycroft tried to hide his anxiousness and agreed.

"Yes, and the public will believe it eventually. His purpose is to stain your name as a fraudulent detective who created a master villain as his archenemy. A fall, did you say?"

Sherlock pondered the statement for a few minutes in silence. Suddenly his eyes were open.

"On the day of the Verdict, he had told me that falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination. Hold on. That's the second meaning of the fall. A fall from a great height. That's his plan."

Mycroft stammered in alarm.

"Your fall. Your death from a great height."

Sherlock's face got tense. His voice had some urgency.

"I need to fake my death. It won't be a bullet or a poison or a traffic accident. It's as good as he had told me. Somehow, Moriarty is going to force me to jump and die, maybe from a top of a building in London"

"What building?"

"I have no idea. The Yard? No, he has no escape, then."

"You can't let him decide where. You should."

"I know. Mycroft, I need some kind of apparatus to break my fall."

"Just name it, and then it will be ready at your request."

"I need to go."

"Sherlock, next time, use public phone and call me. Don't use mobiles."

The detective headed out in a hurry. Mycroft sighed and turned off the computer after deleting the files from the system.

**Noon, the next day.**

Mycroft excused himself from the Cabinet meeting. In the toilet, he opened the text message from Agent R17.

_The CV authenticity was verified. R17_

Mycroft called the Sun and talked with the Editor in Chief.

* * *

A month later, Sherlock visited his brother again. They discussed a basic plan of a fake suicide: a safety apparatus to break the fall, a hideout, a fake identity, and next plan after the fall, some disguises like hair dye and glasses... Then an uncomfortable silence fell because the brothers knew there was one problem left: Should John be in the plan? Sherlock hesitated for seconds, and then told Mycroft that John should be the last person to know the truth for people would believe John. Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief: he was thinking of the same thing, but he couldn't say it loud.

* * *

**A few days before Reichenbach Fall**

Mycroft was waiting for John to arrive. The traffic must be bad because John was late for about 15 minutes than usual. Well, it wasn't the traffic. John happened to ignore the Total Silence rule of the Club and was ushered out disgracefully. The tradition… He calmed down the annoyed doctor. John noticed the Sun on a side table as Mycroft had expected. Casually, the older Holmes planted the idea about the big expose by Riley and a name, Richard Brook. He also gave the impression that his sibling relationship had come to a breaking point after he informed John of the presence of assassins nesting around Baker Street 221B. John didn't take the presence of professional killers seriously, although his face hardened briefly when he realized that the two brothers were not even on a speaking terms.

**A day before the Fall,** **Diogenes Club**

Mycroft knew everything went along as planned when he found John waiting for him. John seemed very upset and angry for some reason. He shot a cold, spiteful glance at the older Holmes and demanded an explanation. When Mycroft muttered out he was sorry, he truly did mean it.

He wasn't sorry for feeding fake information to Moriarty. Sherlock and he had agreed upon it: that was the bait to hunt down the criminal mastermind and to tear down his net. Sherlock and Mycroft did their best, planting ideas to John that it was Mycroft's betrayal that had estranged the two brothers.

It was the doctor for whom Mycroft Holmes felt guilty: His brother's fake suicide was the biggest lie that would surely depress the doctor for the time being. The time for a closure was approaching: John would face the news of his flatmate's suicide in disgrace sooner or later. The older Holmes felt his eyes burning, a rare thing in his life, when he stared at the door closed behind John. He picked up his phone and made a few calls to get everything ready.

**Bart's **

As planned, a big trash lorry parked alongside the building. Moriarty had just killed himself – the detective hadn't expecting it so he had no choice. He had to jump and John had to believe it. He had just finished a "teary" phone call with his flatmate: John looked blurry far away behind the building. Throwing away his mobile and taking a deep breath, Sherlock Holmes plunged down: the net looked larger and larger while he was flailing his arms to land on the net. He barely made it. He must have broken his left arm, but he was moving all right. Throwing the net into the lorry, Sherlock opened the door of the lorry with his right hand. Wincing and trying not to use his left arm as much as possible, the detective crawled on the truck, and closed the door. He literally crumpled himself inside the tight space beneath the control panel next to the front seat. The driver took no notice of this new passenger, and started the lorry almost immediately when the door was shut. On the pavement lied a body, dressed like the detective with the pool of blood around his head. Soon there was a commotion around the body: pedestrians were gathering around it; paramedics and some nurses were running. After a few minutes, the detective managed to get out and sat down next to the driver. The driver flung a baseball cap and Sherlock put it on although the lorry's windows were tinted dark.

* * *

In silence, the truck ran for about thirty minutes before it stopped at a safety house. The sleuth got out and opened the door of the house. He choked out a few words to the driver before he entered it.

"Thanks for the ride, Agent Riley."

"Anytime, detective. I'll be busy for the time being, writing articles. Your items that you had required are there, ready at your disposal. Good Luck, Mr. Holmes."

The ginger-haired driver sent a text to her boss, Mycroft Holmes, and started the lorry when the door of the house was shut.

* * *

What do you think? I hope you enjoyed this;) Reviews or comments are very very welcome. Until next story... Bye.


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